Part of being a good bondage whore depends on your tolerance for pain. When I first became a slave, I was such a wimp. You abused me so bad, saying that I deserved it and that I needed to be “broken.” You dry-fucked me with your large cock. You starved me. I cried and begged. You laughed in my face saying that I needed to toughen up unless I wanted to be sold.

It was like a part of my mind shut down. I became a true BDSM piece of meat. I learned to take a punch without flinching, only thanking you for the pleasure. You let your friends violate me for hours to try to make me beg. But it was too late. That part of me that felt things had been destroyed. I became a fuck-tube and a cum dumpster, nothing more. I was quietly obedient, lady-like even with a busted face and a bruised body. Even as your cock pounded my swollen mouth, my mind belonged only to me. When you realized that I was trained, you eased up on me. I still scream and beg sometimes for your amusement. I pretend that I cannot take one more blow, or one more minute of the terror you inflict but somewhere, in my soul, I’ve grown to love this life. I await your orders, Master. How may I please you tonight?